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All the warmth and light inside her seemed to freeze, then shatter.

But Cesca knew better than to let it show. She knew better than to react.

She also did not dare to look in Saviero’s direction, because she was afraid of what she’d see in those fathomless blue eyes of his.

Lord Frick’s words landed on her like a slap upside the head, just as they were meant to do.

But the fact that the old man wanted to hurt her feelings didn’t make what he said untrue.

Because she knew it was true.

Saviero was about the kingdom, the crown. That was what he was hiding from her.

Maybe it wasn’t that he was hiding it, but that she hadn’t wanted to admit that truth to herself, because it hurt.

Because she was in love with him and he was dedicated to whoever wore the crown, whether it was her brother or her or whoever came after her. It was who he was. He’d told her so. He’d told her why.

How had she allowed herself to imagine it could be otherwise?

She should have known better. The Queen had no friends, and certainly no immediate, perfect lover in the form of a husband she would have been forced to marry either way. The husband that had been handpicked by the brother who had only abandoned his throne because he could not keep both it and his small family.

The brother who had been a political animal his whole life, with Saviero as his right-hand man every step of the way.

She should have seen this coming from the start.

Because it made sense. If she wasn’t so inconveniently in love with him, she would have applauded the efficiency.

Time to grow up, Cesca, she told herself then. Coldly. You are the fucking Queen. And you had better figure out a way to love the throne and the crown, because they are the only things you really have. The only things that are yours.

That meant she had to stop acting from her feelings. She had to start playing these palace chess games these men thought were nothing more than a bit of sport—that usually came with power and prestige, that was.

More importantly, she had to make sure she won.

The way her brother always had. The way she knew Saviero always did.

So she made herself smile at Lord Frick. “If His Royal Highness, Prince Saviero, is a palace dog,” she said quietly, but with unerring accuracy, “what do you suppose that makes you?”

The old man turned beet red, and was silent. He did not mention Roderigo Delacroix or make any further insulting commentary.

Cesca did not look at her consort and husband for the rest of the meeting.

And when she rose, ending said meeting precipitously when she decided she’d allowed enough time to pass after the dog comment, so no one could claim it had chased her away, she did not look back at Saviero when she left.

Hoping against hope that no one except her knew exactly how badly she’d been hurt.

Or worse, that she’d fancied herself in love with a man who would have married anyone who took that throne. That she still did, even though her eyes were open now and reality had returned to her in full, bright color.

And that she wasn’t entirely sure it was something she could undo.

CHAPTER TEN

SAVIERO, WHO HAD long prided himself on remaining calm under any kind of pressure, came closer to taking a swing at that idiot Lord Frick than he liked. He managed to restrain himself—but only barely.

After the Queen swept from the room, the tone did not improve. On the contrary. The Old Guard bleated on about propriety and timing. They all made it perfectly clear that they thought Cesca should have come to them and asked their guidance, then amused herself with her frivolities while letting them run the kingdom as they saw fit.

“I don’t recall you asking the same of Vesuvius,” Saviero found himself replying.

“Vesuvius trained his whole life to be King,” retorted one of the old men, with a scoffing sort of laugh that Saviero disliked intensely. “He was not some—”